His mom had been the creative parent—enough creativity to fill several city nuthouses. Despite his music and his wood carving, the old man had been the practical parent, the one who took care of the bills, the house, the car, the yard, even the vegetable patch. Of course, his mom tore down the deer fence whenever she veered off on an alcohol-fueled rant—some weird reasoning about caged wildlife that made no sense to anyone except her. And every time she ripped it down, his dad replaced it.
The front door opened, and Will jumped.
“Nice run?” Poppy’s eyes went straight to his groin. She wasn’t even subtle.
“No.” Will flopped onto the front steps and started unlacing his sneakers. “You about ready to leave for the day?”
“Close. I’ve been slow-pokin’ it around. Waiting for you to come back. Mind if I join you?”
A redundant question since she was already in motion to do just that. Some indignant squirrel kicked up a ruckus in the forest, and Will scooched over.
“Thought we should chat while your dad’s asleep,” Poppy said.
His stomach did some bizarre little backflip. She wasn’t going to quit on him, was she? Will leaned forward and collapsed his arms onto his knees.
“You know Hannah told your dad he could stay in the cottage as long as he likes?” Poppy said.
“She shouldn’t have, because he can’t.”
“Yeah, whatever. Gum?”
What were they, like, twelve? “No. Thanks.”
“Thing is—” she unwrapped two sticks of Juicy Fruit and shoved them both in her mouth at once “—your dad really doesn’t want to leave.”
“I know. But he’s not thinking about what’s best for anyone but himself.”
“Not strictly true. I may have to leave my duplex soon. Had a few rough years, financially. The recession’s been hard on the custom ceramics business. Paying rent’s getting to be, you know, problematic. And the horse isn’t cheap.” Poppy looked toward the paddock where Miss Prissy was prancing around, mane flying. “Shouldn’t have stolen her, but no regrets.”
“I thought you rescued her.”
“Rescued, stole. Same thing.”
Hardly. Will watched a black snake at the edge of his vision. It slithered out from under the Carolina jessamine by the side of Hannah’s house, hesitated, then made a mad dash for the forest. He had half a mind to follow.
“Look. You want to go back to New York to be near your work and your kid. I get that.”
He closed his eyes briefly, but it didn’t help. Freddie’s giggle surrounded him, bled through his pores, speared his heart.
“But your dad wants to stay here, and I need somewhere to crash before I end up living out of a rusty Honda Civic.”
Will sat up straight. “You don’t mean what I think you mean. Do you?”
“You always cryptic?”
“Okay,” Will said slowly. “How’s this—do you have any experience living with an old and possibly senile man?”
“Jacob’s not senile.”
“Not yet, but his memory’s failing faster than the Titanic.”
“I can beg.” She butted her hip into his. Will jerked back. “Because if you say no, I’ll have to return to the parental home in Raleigh, and I might not recover. Mama will put me on a carb-free diet and force me to watch beauty pageants, and Daddy will make me relive his glory days as a TV weatherman.”
“Fascinating family.”
“We all have our crosses to bear. Mama’s a former beauty queen who hasn’t forgiven me for not entering Miss Magnolia. After three boys, I was her last great hope for a tiara.”
Will couldn’t help it, he smiled. “So, you’re local? You don’t sound very Southern.”
“Fucking elocution lessons. And two voice coaches before I turned fourteen. I can sing the Star-Spangled Banner like a damn Yankee.” She paused. “You’ll think about my offer?”
Will nodded, even though he had no intention of following through. Hers was a half-assed solution at best. No way was he going to settle for a Band-Aid when his dad was a step away from full-time nursing care.
The repetitive laugh of an Indian hen woodpecker—loud, harsh, more of a cackle—came from behind the cottage.
“You’ve met our boy, then.” Poppy bobbed her head toward Galen.
“Is it true that he tried to kill himself? There seemed to be some discrepancy between Hannah’s and Galen’s views of the event.”
“He stumbled into an E.R. shit-faced and talked about slitting his wrists. Hannah prefers to focus on the positive—that he sought help before actually trying it.”
The long, brightly colored twists of plastic that hung from the porch ceiling swirled above them.
“And what do you think?”
Poppy stared at Will until he looked away. “I think Galen needs a friend.”
* * *
The footsteps stopped outside Galen’s room.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom said, and walked away.
In the past forty-eight hours, there had been no reprimand for dragging their celebrity tenant into the family debacle, no harsh words concerning the bottle of wine. Mom had offered understanding and acceptance. Neither of which Galen deserved; neither of which he wanted.
Spiritual was the word people attached to Mom, but therapy had taught him to be honest and repressed was more accurate. Thinking in adjectives—empirical proof of how low he had sunk.
Had she really not expected him to search for booze? He used to admire the way she allowed people to be themselves, but her inability to question his flaws was a burden he no longer wanted. Trust was a dangerous disease. He’d hated himself since he was ten years old. Why could his mother not see that? Why could she not see that the steadfast, dependable guy of the family no longer existed? Had he ever?
Yes, he shared the blame. He’d wanted to protect her from the horror inside his head. And now he lacked the persuasive energy to show her the truth: that depression was his life force.
Galen stood and walked down the stairs, barefoot. Poppy was meant to join them, but her social life was like quicksilver. Mom was often Poppy’s insurance against a quiet Saturday night, but it never seemed to bother her. “Poppy likes to party,” she’d once explained. “I don’t.”
He entered the kitchen and Mom offered him a smile and a warm plate of ratatouille. He mumbled his thanks.
They ate without conversation. The food tasted of nothing.
He scraped his fork around the plate, until Mom leaned over and stopped him.
“What do you think of our new tenant?” She gave a shaky smile.
He shrugged; his mind had become an empty plastic bucket. The cheap kind kids used for building sandcastles on cold beaches.
“Why don’t you go over tomorrow with some of your poems?” she said.
“I doubt he’s going to renew his invitation.”
“I could talk with him, ask him for you.”
“No.” Galen positioned his fork diagonally across the plate. He’d never before appreciated the power of such a simple gesture. It screamed, I’m done.
“I think—” she picked up his plate and stood “—that you’d be surprised by Will. I’m sure he could help you get back to writing, offer some useful tips.”
“He produces genre fiction, Mom. That’s one up from boxes of frozen vegetables. He’s not Hemingway.”
“His debut novel is outstanding. One of my top ten books of all time. I have a copy upstairs if you’re interested.” Mom cleared the table while he sat. No tongue-lashing for being a sloth. “He portrays mental illness really well.”
How could she say that and not link her own situation to those two words: mental illness. “You mean I might be fodder for one of Will’s stories.”
“Galen
, you need to ease up on yourself. Let the meds work, let your body and your mind recuperate, but please, climb off the pity pot.”
“Nice attitude.”
“It’s the best I can do, given how little you communicate with me.”
Galen stared at a slice of zucchini on the floor. Daisy snapped it up before the rest of the pack noticed.
“I’m sorry, Mom. No one wants to be around me right now, and I know I’m making it worse. But my mind is a dead weight. I can’t lift it up.”
“Why don’t you try some positive thinking? Find one happy thought right before you go to sleep and then remind yourself of it first thing when you wake up.”
But he couldn’t tidy up his thoughts, categorize them into happy or unhappy. The medication blurred every line.
“Healing takes time and patience, but if you set yourself small goals every day, you can work toward bigger and brighter things.”
He rested an elbow on the table and leaned into his palm. “Do you have answers for everything?”
“No. I just refuse to give up.”
Words of a holistic warrior, when all he wanted was to crawl back into bed and wave the white flag.
“Yeah, like you understand failure. Name one thing you’ve failed at.”
“My marriage,” she said, without bitterness. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ve failed at being a parent, too.”
“It’s not your fault I’m this way, Mom.”
“Possibly, but that doesn’t explain your brother, does it?” She grinned.
Sex and drugs had filled Liam’s life since he was fourteen. Mom didn’t know the half of it, because Galen had worked hard at being an efficient big brother. Since kindergarten, Liam had flown on charm and bad behavior. Even the high school teachers who spent their lives disciplining Liam loved him. And there had always been girls. Liam’s current girlfriend was a fox. Unlike Mom, unlike him, Liam would not end up alone.
Galen’s elbow slid across the table, no longer able to support his head. “Why am I sick, Mom? Why do I have messed-up brain chemistry?”
She brushed her fingers through his hair: slow, calm strokes that caused his eyelids to flutter with the promise of more sleep.
“I don’t know, baby. But we will figure this out. I promise.”
“It doesn’t feel that way to me. I don’t see an end, and I’ve lost the beginning. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a genetic component.”
Her hand retreated. He turned to face her, but she had moved to the sink and was rinsing off plates.
“Have you ever suffered from depression, Mom?”
“No.” She slotted his plate into the drying rack. “I haven’t.”
“What about after Dad’s betrayal?”
“I thought we all agreed that worked out for the best.”
“How can you be so clinical, so detached?”
She turned, her face a complex chart of creases and worry lines. “Is that what you think?”
Their conversation was a mind-suck. Galen pushed back his chair.
“Thanks for dinner,” he remembered to say.
His foot was on the bottom stair when he heard Mom’s voice—alone in the empty room. “That went well.”
* * *
When someone tapped on the back door at 11:00 p.m., Will knew who it was. And he briefly considered not answering. But Hannah had rescued him when he was desperate; the least he could do was open the door for her son’s apology. Besides, he wasn’t game for another day of hide-and-seek with a tenacious, possibly suicidal poet.
Galen glowered. A definite six on the crazy-gauge. “I’m not carrying tonight.” He held out empty hands. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
But Galen stayed rooted to the porch, surrounded by a halo of bugs and moths. The night air vibrated with crickets and katydids. Maybe a few tree frogs mixed in.
“I’ve noticed your lights on, late at night,” Galen said. “Figured this might be a good time.”
Will tightened his grip on the doorknob. Could they just do this and move on? He wasn’t accustomed to apologies, had never gotten them growing up.
“I’m sorry about the other night. It was unfair to drag you into my shit.” Galen fiddled with his thick glasses. The guy must be one step away from total blindness.
“You don’t have to apologize, dude. Really—you don’t. Suicidal, huh? Are you still?” Might as well be up front. It was surprisingly easy to be blunt with a screw-up who ranked your work on the same level as that of a hot dog vendor.
Galen shrugged with the effort of a centenarian on his deathbed.
“Sorry.” Will swallowed through a hot rush of guilt. “That was a tough question.”
“I’ve got a tougher one.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know what it’s like to wake up crying?”
“Yeah. I do.” I know what it’s like to cry through the day, through the night, through my dreams.
“You have depression?”
“Not exactly. Nothing personal, man, but I don’t talk about it.”
“That’s cool. I don’t have the energy for other people’s context.”
Finally, we can agree on something.
“Why don’t you come inside before we invite the entire insect population of Orange County to join us? You drink coffee?” Coffee had to be safe for an addict, although, if he remembered his research from novel five, caffeine was bad for anxiety, and anxiety fed off depression. “Or I have orange soda. Generic crap that my dad likes.”
“Coffee, please.” Galen walked into the kitchen and pulled back a chair—déjà vu.
Will almost said, Does your mother know where you are? Which was a dumb question to ask a twenty-two-year-old. He stuck the electric kettle under the tap and the sound of water hitting metal filled the room. He wasn’t too fond of company who stayed past ten o’clock. How should he feel about company who arrived after eleven?
“You work at night?” Galen nodded at the open laptop.
“Used to.”
“Writer’s block?”
“First time.” Will switched on the kettle, then dug around in the freezer, pushing aside the Maple View Farm pints of Carolina crunch, pumpkin pie and black walnut. Had he been trying to buy his dad’s compliance with ice cream? He grabbed the bag of coffee beans, slammed the freezer door and took the top off the grinder. Another new possession along with the French press he was about to use. Gradually he was acquiring objects down here, hoarding worse than a blue jay.
“I can’t write, either,” Galen said.
“Poetry?”
“Used to be.”
The grinder whirred, pulverizing the beans.
“How long,” Will said. “Since you wrote?”
“Anything worth reading?”
“Anything.”
“July.”
Will braced himself against the counter.
“You?”
“Same.” Although he’d lost more than his talent in July. “If you want to write something, even crap, I’ll read it.”
“I can’t write crap.” Galen exhaled.
“Well, there’s your problem, right there. You’ve got to dig through trash to find gems.”
“That might be true of fiction, but in poetry every word counts.”
“In the final draft, yes, but don’t you edit?”
“Some, but it percolates in my head first. Comes out close to perfect.” Galen winced. “God, that sounded egotistical. I mean—”
“I’ve got it. We’re good.”
“This is the most guarded conversation I’ve ever had,” Galen said.
To his horror, Will laughed. Laughter didn’t belong in a conversation concerning the month of July. “It’
s a sort of macho pissing match, isn’t it? Except you don’t strike me as a testosterone-driven guy.” Wild guess, could be wrong. “I’m not much of one, either.”
“My best friend in high school was a girl.”
The kettle clicked off and Will poured water into the French press. Steam belched toward his face like a mushroom cloud. “Mine, too. You guys still friends?”
“Not since she went all corporate America and picked up a fiancé with monogrammed shirts. How about you?”
“Yeah, we’re still best friends. She’s married, but to a good guy. She works for me.”
“Were you ever in love with her?” Galen said.
“You’re not undercover with the National Enquirer, are you?”
“You don’t have to answer.” Galen sighed. “I’m trying to think like my mother and find stories of hope. How anyone survives a broken heart is a mystery.”
For a moment, Galen’s expression was the perfect reflection of Hannah, although they looked nothing alike. Hannah was a blonde; Galen had black hair and dark, stormy eyes. If he ditched the glasses and did something with his lanky hair, he’d be cute. For a guy.
“Yeah, I was in love with her,” Will said. “But only for a decade or two. I’ve always been a one-woman guy.”
“You still in love with her?”
The freezer made a weird sparking noise, then fell silent.
“No. Cream? Sugar?”
“Black, please.” Galen played with a piece of braided string wrapped tightly around his wrist. “I tried to kill myself over a woman.”
“I doubt it was that straightforward.”
Somewhere in the forest behind the cottage, a coyote howled. When Will was a kid, coyotes were mostly mythical, misunderstood creatures from his mom’s stories. But once he’d left Orange County, the coyotes had moved in. Now they were as common as crows.
“I’m sorry, too,” Galen said in little more than a whisper, “about being an asshole when we met.”
“We’re good on the whole apology thing.” Will forced the plunger down with the flat of his hand and poured two cups of black coffee. A little weaker than usual, just in case.
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